


Appassionata in F Minor

by compo67



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Body Horror, Body Modification, Cages, Chains, Cruelty, Disfigurement, Fear Play, Gen, Genetically Engineered Beings, Gore, Graphic Description, Hurt Jared, Inflation, Knifeplay, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Not Really Character Death, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Dolls, Sexual Slavery, Torture, Violence, ballet dancer Jensen, sex doll Jared
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 23:28:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3400232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dolls are not human. Jared is a Padalecki 3000. He stays within his cage, looking out at the shop, visiting The Room when customers request him. Anything can be done to a doll. Jared is a special, in-demand model because of his unique ability to feel pain. </p><p>To manage the shop overnight, The Owner hires a clerk.</p><p>Jared looks out at a whole new world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Appassionata in F Minor

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Апассионата в фа минор](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5410625) by [chemerika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemerika/pseuds/chemerika), [de_maria_na](https://archiveofourown.org/users/de_maria_na/pseuds/de_maria_na)



> *This is very graphic, especially at the end. Please read accordingly.*

One day, Jared woke up.

A human he would later understand as a Technician took his vitals. _Bah dum_. That—the faceless, nameless Technician announced—was the heart beat of a Padalecki 3000.

Details of himself were told to him from a pamphlet.

Some dolls don’t feel pain because their users don’t want them to. Many users prefer not knowing what a doll goes through. Dolls are blank slates. But the Padalecki 3000 is a new model.

Jared was made to feel pain.

There is never a shortage of customers.

 

A night assistant is needed for the shop.

The duties are as follows:

-Check-in customers

-Lead them to the appropriate cage

-Allow them to see the doll beforehand

-Extract the doll from its cage

-Escort both doll and customer to The Room

-Ensure that the customer is satisfied, but also that the merchandise is handled properly

-Escort customer out first, then escort the doll back to its cage

-Clean The Room

-More duties as assigned

In between customers, the night assistant is to sanitize cages, keep track of appointments, and answer the phone up front. The phone has a special code; no doll is allowed to know it. Dolls are only allowed out of their cage to be with a customer; they must go directly to The Room.

Models of dolls vary between brands.

The Owner has a doll two cages to the right of Jared that was made special-order—they take on the shape and form of the user’s first love. They are a very popular doll.

First loves are difficult customers.

Jared himself has been adjusted to resemble many people, just as he has been called many names.

Kyle. Brad. Chris. Neil. Paul. Matt. Joey.

These names are many people. They are one night stands, unrequited love interests, or first loves from years ago. Customers who ask for first love experiences usually leave marks. Tender yearning laced with regret quickly becomes searing, painful bitterness. But that’s the gift of a doll; no matter how hard they beat Jared, he will always take their pain.

And he will always heal.

Physical leftovers vanish within twenty four hours.

Word from the factory says that they are in the process of designing a Padalecki 4000 model that has a faster healing rate. The Owner frequently mutters that the factory makes these claims, yet the rate is improved by only a few seconds, which hardly makes the investment worth it. Upgrades, upgrades, The Owner says whenever he is off the phone with his distributor. Just another way to make a buck.

At present, The Owner folds Jared back into his cage and locks it.

A light above each cage shows the status of the doll inside: red for unavailable, green for available, and black for probation.

Jared wheezes, wet with blood and come, twisting around in the small space.

This was a difficult customer. Their anger was sharp. With their one hour session they requested a set of small, blunt knives. Words are carved onto him from his back to his hips, though he cannot make them out. Every incision has come in it.

When Jared moves, it burns.

This is nighttime.

Time to bask in the warm glow of the red light shining down on his cage.

A few minutes pass and Jared’s breathing slows. The jingle from the bell attached to the front door alerts everyone in the shop that a customer has walked in. Jared hears skittering in the cages surrounding him, particularly in the cage above. He doesn’t draw back. What will happen is inevitable. A red light over a cage does not guarantee anything.

Some customers specifically want what they refer to as “the leftovers.” They want a doll that has been recently used. Therefore, the light would mean nothing, and once more, The Owner’s hand would reach into the cage and pull the doll out. Jared has had it happen to him before. He has seen it happen to others just as much.

“I’m here for an interview,” says a voice.

“Ah yes,” The Owner replies. “Do you have experience?”

No one but The Owner and the dolls are ever allowed in the shop. Customers are allowed to come in and look, but they are given a limited time frame to select a doll. No one can dawdle. No one can stare.

From their cages, the dolls look over towards the front of the store, their eyes flashing in the darkness like silver dollars.

“Yes.”

“With dolls?”

“…I can learn.”

“Hmm. No. Not here. I need someone reliable in my shop.”

“I am reliable. I show up on time, I don’t bull shit customers, and I can do the work.”

“Pick a doll.”

“For what?”

“Pick a doll.”

Jared has neighbors on either side of him and above and below him. Dolls are kept in cages five high by fifteen across. On a few escorts back from The Room, Jared has been lucid enough to know that he is three from the right, four up.

Skittering noises sound throughout the shop as The Owner and the voice walk away from the front and towards the cages. Jared tries his best to keep still and quiet. When he is good, he receives a tablet to alleviate pain. When he is bad, The Owner calls Apollo.

Apollo is a customer who enjoys making a mess of Jared.

“That one.”

It takes Jared a moment to realize that he has been selected. The red light has done nothing for him.

“Why that one? What drove you to it?” The Owner stands outside of Jared’s cage but does not open it.

“I…. I figure whatever you want me to do to it, can’t be that bad. It’s already bleeding.”

A laugh echoes out. The Owner punches in the code to Jared’s cage and reaches in with his large, fat hand. He grabs Jared by the hair and extracts him, unfolding him, hauling him out and throwing him down to the floor. Jared manages not to make a sound. He can be good. This is a demonstration. This is an interview. There have been other interviews.

“You’re the first person who hasn’t wanted to fuck one of my dolls as a perk.” The Owner pulls Jared’s hair and forces him to look up at the voice. Jared’s eyes water. He doesn’t get a good look. “Hit it. Right across the face.”

Most people hesitate. Someone explained it as pity. Jared looks too young, they protested. Like he’s thirteen or something. Jared doesn’t know what any of that means. How can he look younger than he is? It makes no sense to him.

One day, he was made.

One day, he woke up.

And on this day, the voice strikes him across the face, with a force to his hand that leaves Jared’s ears ringing and his nose bleeding.

Prone on the floor, Jared cannot not hear their exchange, but he can see the shadows against the tile.

A handshake seals the deal.

“You’re wrong, by the way,” The Owner chortles. “It _can_ be that bad.”

Jared is put back into his cage.

“But you’ll learn.”

 

Dolls do not eat or sleep. They don’t need to.

Unless, however, a user wants them to, then there are programs and extensions and applications which can be bought and added on. There is one model—maybe three cages to the right—whose setting is to do nothing but sleep. It sleeps while it is fucked. It sleeps while it is cut up. It sleeps while customers take pictures of it for later. Jared wonders if it dreams; dreaming is different than sleeping. And if so, does it dream of what happens to its body? Does it somehow know the faces of its customers when it is in The Room?

He won’t ever know the answer to that. Even if the dolls were allowed to talk to each other, even if somehow The Owner or The Voice were not around to hear what might be said if it could be said, that doll only sleeps. It is never awake.

Four weeks have passed.

Dolls are kept naked inside their cages.

If a customer requires or requests clothes, The Voice provides it from behind locked doors inside The Room. Dolls don’t own anything. That would be ridiculous.

Nudity provides potential customers with a blank slate. They are free to imagine any and all possibilities with the dolls in this shop. The Owner talks on the phone sometimes, with people he trusts, and tells them about the terrible conditions in other shops, where dolls are treated practically like people. They are given rooms and choices about customers. _That_ , The Owner has said multiple times, is even more ridiculous than a doll owning a shirt.

It must be horrible for those dolls not to know their place.

Jared understands his place.

Tonight, The Voice is on the phone. It is late. The shop is kept dark. If a customer walks in, The Voice carries a flashlight with him. Darkness means tranquility. If the dolls are exposed to too much light, their skin isn’t as bright in The Room, and their temperament changes. Overstimulation—that’s what The Owner explained it when he was training The Voice those first few nights. Dolls do best in dim, silent surroundings. The most noise Jared hears during the night is The Voice in his conversation, and the occasional breathing and movement from cages around his.

The bell above the door rings. A gust of cold wind reaches the first few cages.

Movement spikes in cages. All dolls face forward. Only new dolls, those inexperienced few, don’t face forward when a customer enters. The Owner has cameras. He also monitors a doll’s use and income. When standards are not met, The Owner replaces the doll in question with another model—the same or an upgrade. He tells the dolls—when they have collectively been disappointing in sales—that he has no issues selling them for parts or sending any of them to the Great Incinerator. So many dolls nowadays are made of recycled material.

“I’ll talk to you later,” The Voice murmurs, rushed, and puts the phone down harder than he usually does. “Good evening. Care to look around?”

Last night, Jared had a customer modify him extensively. Jared’s hair was shaved off; his eyes were changed from a neutral hazel to a startlingly bright blue. Once these modifications were done—via controls The Voice has command over—the customer submitted their final requests. Jared was pumped with a combination of synthetic hormones and water, until his skin stretch and his middle inflated. It hurt. The things customers do to him hurt. That is his purpose.

Round and massive, the customer fucked him over and over again. Sometimes the customer’s hands would hold Jared by his middle, cradling the mound, smoothing over the angry, red stretch marks. Other times, the customer would force Jared down, pull at his hair, and press down over Jared’s middle until Jared cried out in pain. It made it more real that way. It made the customer buy into the illusion that Jared really was heavy with more than what was pumped into him.

At the end, once the customer left, The Voice sat Jared over a latrine and allowed him to expel the water.

It was a nice gesture. Nicer than it should have been done. The Owner usually has Jared release into a drain on the floor. It’s easier to clean up that way. The latrine was a welcomed change.

A flash of light in Jared’s eyes causes him to wince. He has forgotten himself.

Curious, foreign hands tap at the bars of his cage. “This one’s all beat up.”

Customers don’t have voices just like they don’t have faces or features. There is only one customer who has those things—Apollo—and Jared prefers not to think of him. Customers are only defined by their requests. Jared remembers them all. One customer wanted him strung out; The Owner was there for that one. He requested that Jared be given something that looked like dirt, only it was fine and white. Some of it was rubbed over Jared’s entrance. Most of it went into his nose. The dirt did awful things. But it worked. That was a happy customer.

“This one is a Padalecki 3000,” The Voice explains. He does have some details to his voice that Jared has come to catalog in between customers. There’s a rumble to The Voice, distinctive from The Owner’s. Jared has access to a database of languages and dialects; he understands that The Voice has a cadence that matches up to a Central-Texan accent.

Jared has spoken in that accent before for customers. They like it on him. Each and every one who requests that accent change has also asked to hear the word “y’all.” The Voice does not use that word.

“It is programmed to feel pain and absorb it. It is unavailable for another two hours until its bruises heal. I can show you something similar, if you would be so inclined.”

“No. I like it this way.”

“Will you be paying card or cash?”

“Hmm. Card.”

“Great.” The Voice sounds relieved. “I’ll get you set up here, then we’ll walk back. Would you like one hour or three?”

“Is there a special going on?”

“Three hours is the most cost-effective option.”

“That, then.”

Three hours with one customer is either a blessing or a curse. But Jared can’t think that way. He is a doll. Who cares what happens to him? He has feelings, yes, but they are mostly physical. This train of thought that he experiences is nothing more than an application gone rogue. Some part of him must be defective to observe the changes of mood in The Voice. Jared doesn’t think. Dolls don’t think. How ridiculous is that?

Dolls are made to be used. They are made to please their users. That’s it.

The Voice unlocks Jared’s cage. Jared has noticed there are freckles over the knuckles of his hands. He can tell that detail even in the cold, hollow shell of his cage. Fingers grip around a piece of Jared’s hair.

Unlock. Extract. Escort.

Jared is led to The Room.

 

Two holes are available for customers to use on Jared. Some models have three, but Jared was not equipped with such mechanics. His body—it says so in his manual—resembles a human male’s. The only difference is that his skin is made of a scientific combination of plastic and highly durable material. It isn’t Jared’s business to know exactly what he is made of. He breathes, bleeds, and cries like humans but he is not human. That is all he needs to know.

A customer smashed the side of his head open once.

Jared short circuited.

The Owner banned that customer and The Hands came in to repair him. The Hands and The Owner are friends. Money was exchanged, Jared was lent out for an hour free of charge, and afterwards, he was placed in his cage good as new.

Staring at the broad plane of The Voice’s back, Jared thinks back to that time now.

He wishes he could have seen the inside of his skull. What is it filled with? A brain? Is it like the yolk of an egg? Or are there wires and switches?

These are silly things to think about. Jared’s time is much better spent analyzing his surroundings.

The customer has given a list of ideals for their session for The Voice to see to as they change into more comfortable clothing. Temperature in The Room has been adjusted; Jared exhales and sees a puff of his breath. It curls into a shape he can’t identify; he saves a picture of it in his database for later.

This is one thing The Owner does not control. He doesn’t know how. No one does—not even the technicians who make dolls. They can’t yet figure out how to shut down a doll’s ability to store certain images, events, or facts. It all operates like memory. When he is not requested, Jared flips through his database of pictures. His favorite picture is of a white rose a customer brought him once.

Up front, the bell rings.

An outfit is shoved into Jared’s hands. The Voice is annoyed.

“Put this on. Hurry. I have to go answer the door.”

With a swish, the double doors open. Just as quickly, they shut. Jared stands there; blinking for a second, he follows his commands. He steps into what will set a theme for the night: white silk camisole and lace panties.

White, Jared tells himself. Virginal. Pure.

Slipping on the camisole, he notices that the selection of white amplifies the bruises on his skin. Steel shutters have been pulled back on the ceiling, revealing panels of mirrors. Jared looks up at his reflection.

One large bruise remains around his eye, purple and yellow, twisting the shape of his left eyebrow. Smaller marks are left too, but none as striking as their comrade near his eye.

The door opens.

Jared flinches.

The Voice’s steps are aggravated—hurried and heavy. He walks over to the control panel in the corner and begins flipping switches. Jared fingers the hem of his camisole, waiting.

Presentation matters to this customer. There is eyelash lace edging.

Heat blooms in Jared’s chest and radiates from the center out towards his nipples. He closes his eyes and tries to steady his breathing. Breasts grow. His skin stretches, supple and pliant. A dial is turned—he can hear the clicks—until the breasts are pendulous. A sharp inhale is given despite his best efforts as hormones are released. These make him dizzy. And he always smells peppermint when this happens. There is no reason or explanation. There could be worse scents.

A few more modifications are made to Jared and The Room. Lights are dimmed and an orange filter is added, making The Room seem warm and inviting. In the center, a bed lifts up from the floor, made to perfection, with silk sheets as fine as the panties Jared is wearing. More clicks and turns of buttons that The Voice has mastered—the movements of his hands seem bored, mechanical—and Jared’s ass swells to form a pert, round curve; the color of his hair changes to blond and increases in length, down past his shoulders. Cosmetics seep to the surface of his skin. Eye shadow. Mascara. Blush. Lipstick.

“Shit,” The Voice hisses. “Forgot your shoes.”

The Voice has a face. Jared doesn’t look at it. They never make eye contact. None of the dolls make eye contact with him.

Another door opens—one that leads only to a changing room, no exits or other entryways—and the customer steps out from it, into The Room. The Voice kneels at Jared’s feet and ties on flats, strapping pieces of white leather up Jared’s legs, to his knees.

“And the instruments?” the customer inquires, advancing soundlessly, dressed in black leather.

From behind the control panel, The Voice pulls out a silver tray.

Jared knows these things from previous experience. He learns. He improves his actions, timing, and technique based on data and statistics. A certain percentage of customers like this or that or not this at all. The Owner gets recommendations if Jared does well, and then the shop does well, and Jared is allowed to reside in his cage for another day.

Ball stretcher. Enemas. Whips. Nipple clamps.

These don’t frighten Jared. He is made to be used this way.

Dolls aren’t supposed to feel anything, especially fear. But Jared is able to understand the concept of fear; he, more than any other doll, is familiar with it because it is intimately tied to pain. A customer requested that for their session, Jared was to be hidden in a closet. The customer broke the door down, dragged Jared out, beat him, and fucked him as he struggled in fear. That was the key—The Owner pulled Jared aside and emphasized that line—struggle in _fear_. Make it look good.

If Jared could feel fear, it wouldn’t be towards any of these things or the customer’s hands hovering above the hem of the camisole, as if unsure of how to touch Jared first. It wouldn’t be towards The Voice leaving silently for three hours, leaving him with the customer in The Room. It wouldn’t be towards two hours into this session, when Jared is screaming, crying, and thrashing on the bed, bleeding from his ass and being choked until his eyes roll back and his vision cuts out.

He wouldn’t be afraid of any of that.

The customer smiles with his hands—ten fingers flutter and twitch in excitement.

It is the thought of being discarded and dumped, neglected and uncared for. What is a doll without an Owner? Without users to use them? Even the Great Incinerator is a better fate than being tossed out, face down on the pavement, stepped over and ignored.

Jared shudders as fingers touch the sides of his arms.

“Let’s have some fun.”

 

Long ago, dolls were made out of vinyl and air.

They were crude, rough things that only barely resembled human bodies. One of the chief complaints from users was over popped seams; dolls deflated and required costly repairs or an entire replacement after only a few uses.

Technicians went to work on better models, however, the materials remained rudimentary. From vinyl came silicone and foam, with water filled into the breasts or buttocks.

The last update The Owner gave to Jared enhanced his vocabulary.

He is able to access and use words like “velocity,” and “aerodynamic.” A customer wanted him to read from a book about physics. The Owner wasn’t sure Jared’s basic programming allowed such an understanding of advanced words, so an update was installed.

It took thirty-seven seconds exactly.

In his cage, Jared repeats words that have elicited positive responses from multiple customers.

These aren’t complicated words. Jared certainly did not need an upgrade for the use of them. But he has analyzed a variety of circumstances and moments when these words tip the scales in his favor. He makes a lasting impression this way. With so many dolls and shops to choose from, why remember any particular one?

The customer with the camisole and cock cage becomes a regular.

Pleased, The Owner slips Jared a pill that sends a message to his pain receptors. For three precious hours—one hundred and eighty minutes, ten thousand, eight hundred seconds—Jared is curled up in his cage, blissful and blurred from all noise or sight around him.

How did those dolls exist in their silent, stationary marvel?

At the end of the pill’s effects, Jared fidgets in his cage. His skin feels too tight. Yesterday he had five customers in seven hours. One of them dressed him up in an elaborate costume of sequins and pearls, then fucked him with a glass dildo, upside down. Another had the controls adjusted extensively; Jared’s middle expanded to its maximum, rendering him completely immobile.

Maybe there’s not much difference between him and those early dolls.

He felt like he was going to burst.

“No, it’s quiet tonight,” The Voice whispers into the phone from the front desk. “Yes, you can stop in.”

Jared makes himself into smooth, listless vinyl. He pictures every place a seam would be—under his arms, between his thighs, perhaps around his ankles. Pale, pink stitching would be a fine choice, though wouldn’t it be funny if the thread were red? Ridiculous.

The receiver is carefully placed down at the same time Jared smiles at his own musings.

 

“Pick one.”

“Damn, there’re so many.”

“Just hurry up. It’s not cheap.”

“The Owner doesn’t give you a discount?”

“It’s not that much.”

“Have you ever…?”

“Dude. I work here.”

“So?”

“It’d be weird.”

“It’d be awesome.”

“No. It’d be like… fucking your coworkers.”

“They’re not people, Jensen.”

“I still have to work with them.”

“What about that one?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“You like that one.”

“I don’t.”

“Padalecki 3000. Sounds fancy.”

“I’ll kick you out, Misha.”

“Fine, fine. What about this one?”

“It’s your choice.”

“Oh, but it’s not my choice. You won’t let me have that one.”

“Don’t push it. This is a favor.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I owe you one.”

“No—I mean _this_. You don’t have to work here. Come back to the studio. We can work things out between you and Antoinette. You can dance again. You could…”

“Shut up. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“She misses you.”

“What did I just say?”

“We all miss you.”

“Yeah? You all miss a dancer with a busted ankle and a broken… never mind. Look, you helped me out with my rent, I can’t pay you back, but I can let you have an hour in this stupid room with one of these things. Take it or leave it. I don’t care what you do in there. Fuck it, kiss it, dance with it—it’s all confidential. You sure you want this one?”

“Well I wanted…”

“ _This_ one.”

“…yes, that one. I was going to say that.”

“Whatever.”

“They stare.”

“…”

“It’s so quiet in here. Doesn’t that freak you out?”

“No.”

“What do you do in between customers?”

“I sing Broadway and tap dance.”

“Oh good, your sarcasm hasn’t taken a blow.”

“You get one hour. Did you fill out that list?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s get this over with.”

“They’re all still staring.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose… Jensen?”

“What.”

“…do you like working here?”

“No. Of course not. Do you think I like working with animated glory holes? You think I like working around dead eyes following my every movement? You think I wake up every day and think to myself, ‘Gee, I can’t wait to go clean the assholes of sex dolls?’”

“I was only asking.”

“Well don’t.”

 

Jared has a bad customer two hours later.

Two glass dildos have been rammed into him, improperly, without any lube. When Jared would not stop screaming, the customer left. Tied down by his wrists, beaten and flogged all over, Jared knows that this is not the worst of it. Not by far. But there seems to be no point of being in pain if there is no one around to get off from it.

The worst is when The Voice walks in.

Breathing angrily the entire time he pries each dildo out, he throws them across the room.

He has better things to do.

Jared knows.

Than to clean the asshole of a sex doll.

 

Twenty-four hours later, a regular customer requests Jared. He quickly lodges a complaint with The Owner, who is on shift. Jared is too loose, the customer claims, he is shit for gaping.

The Owner assesses Jared inside The Room, on the medical table he has been chained to, and within thirty seconds admits that yes, this is true. Something is currently defective with this doll. Apologies are extended. A rain check is offered. The customer asks how soon The Hands can arrive. Both leave The Room to set up a new appointment time while Jared is made to wait.

This table is cold. Colder than his cage.

He knew when The Owner brought him out that he still wasn’t fully healed. His hole felt puffy and swollen all day. But when The Voice and The Owner changed shifts, nothing was mentioned to The Owner about Jared’s experience the night before. However, by all accounts, Jared should have healed by now. A delay in his healing process means that he needs a system upgrade and a repair.

This customer has Jared’s middle swollen up like usual. This customer likes that. He likes to fuck Jared on this medical table and pretend that they will start a family together. He calls Jared little names as they fuck—baby, good boy, beautiful. This is what people do—this customer has insisted several times—and Jared is wonderful at it. People make families. And Jared takes a cock perfectly, according to this customer.

Except for today. Today, Jared was bad. Today, Jared was loose and sloppy and sad.

“It’s just a basic repair,” The Owner’s voice can be heard after the swish of the doors opening. “Come back for your new time and we’ll set you up properly.”

With the swish of the doors closing, The Owner sets to unchaining Jared.

A heavy sigh is given.

For once, Jared isn’t sure if it comes from him or The Owner.

 

As The Hands work on Jared, the sleeping doll is extracted from its cage. By the time Jared returns from his tune up, the sleeping doll’s cage is empty and their sign above it is black.

“A truly beautiful model,” The Hands say, shutting Jared’s cage shut. “A worthwhile investment, indeed.”

What must have happened for the sleeping doll to…?

No one can say.

The Hands talk to The Owner a great deal.

Jared concentrates on breathing, listening to the echo of it in his quarters, as each exhale bounces off cool, sleek metal.

If he thinks about things too much, his seams may bust. They may not be visible, not like those early dolls, but Jared knows they’re there. They have to be—underneath his skin, somewhere in the middle of whatever he’s made of. Tissue? Foam? More plastic?

The upgrade thrums through him.

He closes his eyes and mimics sleep.

 

A long time ago, humans did dolls’ work.

Now, there is human work and doll work. The two don’t mix.

Cleaning out cages is The Voice’s task. Every two nights it is his responsibility to remove the doll, clean and sanitize the cage, and test the locks. All these actions are carefully recorded by hand into a black binder that stays underneath the front desk. In addition to the cages, The Voice scrubs down The Room and prepares it for the next customer. This means that the floors are mopped, the bed is remade, and whatever needs to be sent to the dry cleaner is placed in a plastic bag and set aside.

Tonight it is snowing.

Jared can tell by the shadows of snowflakes across the shop floor.

For a stretch of time, he counts them as they fall. One, two, three. Each snowflake is different. Jared knows this from his database. Snowflakes are remarkably built. Their construction is delicate, yet symmetrical. They fall so far from the sky and still remain impossibly intact. More could be learned about snowflakes, but Jared hesitates looking for information in his database. There hasn’t been a customer all night.

He is on snowflake sixty-eight when The Voice stands up from his post at the front.

It is late.

The shop is dark.

Another automatic upgrade vibrates through Jared, the sensation starting in his chest and expanding out to his fingertips. His systems are cleaned soundlessly at the same time that The Voice pulls the chair at the front desk out. Leaning against the back of it, The Voice takes in a deep breath. Jared has never seen The Voice’s face. But he can see the form of him, dressed in black. Shoes are taken off and nudged under the desk. Jared’s vocabulary app is updated. He searches through it quickly as he waits for whatever strange act might come of these new movements from The Voice. The Voice has not spoken on the phone tonight. He has cleaned only half the cages, stopping two away from Jared’s.

Too many elements are out of sorts.

None of the new words command Jared’s attention as The Voice’s peculiar actions do. Will he leave? But why take off his shoes? Is he in pain? Could something have happened to him while he sat at his desk staring out at the snow?

With care, The Voice pulls out silver slippers from a fabric bag underneath the desk. He steps into them.

Illuminated by the faint glow of street lights from outside, The Voice raises his right hand. He taps a little slab of glass on the desk. A glow emerges from it, along with the faint melody of an orchestra.

A violin is introduced by trumpets. The rhythm is fast paced, which contrasts with how still and steady The Voice remains. Jared can understand instruments and notes. He doesn’t understand the idea behind these arrangements, only that the components within it. The violin is almost nervous, with short, sharp notes, increasing in brevity and force. Not one muscle is moved by The Voice. Jared can hardly stand the contrast in music and body. Is The Voice punishing the dolls around him?

Flutes. Oboes. Clarinets. Bassoons.

Horns. Trumpets. Trombones. Tuba.

Cymbals. Bass drum.

Jared identifies every instrument as he hears it. All of it works together, rising in melody.

And then, The Voice moves. Holding onto the back of the chair, his left leg extends outwards and is held in that position for ten seconds. Placed down, The Voice extends his right leg, but he holds that one out for fifteen seconds, and at a slightly higher angle. These movements appear to be basic, but the light from the front window illuminates muscles and tendons working, joints flexing, delicate bones in careful, calculated movement. A clarinet separates from the background; it breaks from the tempo and casts its own.

It tells a story.

This is a story, told in the ripple and rotation of firm muscles within a lean, toned form.

From his cage, Jared forgets to breathe. Every flutter of flesh captivates him. Turns are made. Power courses through solid thighs. Veins are visible in The Voice’s feet, pumping blood, helping him, driving the life through him to bend and bow and breathe!

All simplicity is gone.

Structure is in place. A pattern of specific steps is set forth and Jared maps them all. The tempo accelerates. The clarinet gives way to the violin—sharp, stinging, and savvy. Faster and faster, the violins work into a wind tunnel all around The Voice.

The Voice spins on his foot, lifting up, with his arms above his head.

A trumpet breaks through, followed by the clash of cymbals, chased by the violin all over again. Higher, higher, higher, the notes sail and The Voice is spinning, turning on his right leg, balanced only on the point of his toe. The long length of him is tight and controlled. Every muscle is disciplined.

Jared counts ten turns like this, excited, enthralled by the lift, the whirl, the illusion of effortless execution. The violin and a trumpet race each other, faster, spiraling towards a peak that signifies a change in position and form. This is the climax on wings—swift, nimble, unrestrained in all of its wonder!

Left leg down to turn and transition…

The Voice falters.

He crumples with a shout of what can only be pain.

The back of the chair is reached for but missed. Scattered, The Voice spins off to the left, slamming against the side of the front desk, falling down and landing on the palms of his hands.

From the slab of glass, a different violin plays. This one is lower in pitch, the chords drawn out, and no mirth to the notes.

Wrecked, The Voice hangs his head. His shoulders shake in the shadow of the desk. A noise distracts him. He looks over to the source.

He looks straight at Jared.

Jared, the only doll foolish enough to clap.

Jared, the only doll who sees The Voice’s face.

Jared, the only doll who dares to take a picture of it.

 

The picture is kept behind the picture of the flower.

Huffing, The Voice climbs back to his feet, tender on the left. Each movement is a subtle hint of what his body is capable of: the way he steps is different from any other human, or doll, that Jared has ever seen. There is grace, distinction, and a delicacy to even the most basic motions. A tap to the glass slab has form and beauty to it. Jared peers out from his cage with new eyes.

He does not understand this upgrade.

Is it an upgrade?

Is it an application that causes his breath to catch as The Voice takes one step towards Jared’s cage?

Dolls don’t need to breathe. They do because it mimics humans. Imitation is important.

Behind The Voice is the light of the street—the outside. Dark blues and grays wash over The Voice’s broad shoulders. It is snowing still. Two steps more and a turn, The Voice faces Jared’s cage, an expression of curiosity across his face. His brow furrows and he bites at his bottom lip.

Jared rattles inside his space, uncertain what any of this means.

Is he in trouble? He was far too bold. But he has run some calculations, some specs, and a quick diagnostic. He understands—in a very formal sense—the limitations of that left leg and has put together how The Voice could potentially move to offset them.

The Voice reaches out. Jared could run another report about only this moment: The Voice’s pupils are dilated, his heart beat is rapid, there is the presence of sweat across his forehead, and his breathing is uncontrolled, erratic in a way. His hand is halfway to Jared’s cage…

_Ring!_

The telephone.

Flinching, The Voice hesitates for exactly two seconds before turning and reaching out for the phone instead. The ring of it is shrill and piercing. Jared is relieved when it is answered and attention is off of him at last.

“Yes,” The Voice speaks into the receiver, hushed and reserved. “Yes, it’s here. No, it’s not with anyone. Yes. Same as last time. I’ll have it set up then. Thank you.”

A customer.

At the front desk, The Voice takes off his slippers and tosses them into the fabric sack once again. He changes into his work boots, tying the laces in quick, efficient motions. There is no more magic in The Voice’s movements. He conducts himself as usual now, settling back into his duties, shoulders squared and his footsteps loud.

Again, he walks up to Jared’s cage.

The code to it is punched in and the door swings open.

Jared is extracted by his hair, pulled out, unfolded, and turned towards The Room.

Inside, Jared is made to sit on an exam table, positioned so that his legs are crossed and his posture is straight. A thick, steel collar snaps around his neck and he is chained to the table. This customer must enjoy a struggle; the chain is kept short. Lights and temperature are adjusted to prior preferences and requests; The Voice handles all of this from the corner, never once looking up or at Jared.

Details are added before The Voice leaves. Three buckets of cold water are left by the exam table, on the floor. Two pink barrettes are snapped into Jared’s hair, one on each side.

One pry bar is placed into Jared’s hands, to be held horizontally.

The doors to The Room swish open, closing immediately after, and Jared is left alone to wait.

Eyes closed, gripping onto the pry bar, he peeks at the picture hidden behind the flower.

 

The customer leaves, three hours later, happy and sated.

“My goodness, I got a little carried away tonight. Would you happen to have a change of clothes for me?”

“…yes.”

“Oh, thank you. Sorry about the mess.”

“No trouble at all.”

“He’s exquisite, you know. They just don’t make that many Padaleckis anymore. Could I trouble you for a blue tie, instead?”

“Here.”

“Thank you.”

“Will that be all?”

“Yes, I think so. Thank you again for fitting me in so late.”

“No trouble at all.”

“Good day. See you again.”

“Yes. Good day.”

 _Swish_ open. _Swish_ close.

Flower.

Focus on the flower.

Do not think about the other picture. That hurts too much. It hurts and it doesn’t even involve seventy-three beatings all over his face and body with the pry bar, smashing him up, splintering his frame, splattering blood onto the customer’s clothes. Dolls have their own blood. It looks and feels and smells and tastes just like human blood, except that it has a shine and sheen to it. Jared kneels in a pool of it, hanging off the table, his body slumped forward, his head held up by the collar.

See how symmetrical nature can be?

See how the petals form around the tender center?

Do not think about barrettes in his hair, the only things still in place. Do not think about the buckets of water poured over him after the pry bar. Oh.

The pry bar.

Focus on the flower.

The Voice touches the pry bar.

Jared shakes.

Don’t think about it. Don’t.

The collar is snapped off.

As quiet as snow falling, The Voice speaks, his voice unsteady and thick.

“Each spin is called a pirouette. Every kick is a grand battement.”

Focus on The Voice.

Not the pry bar.

 

Jared’s sign is lit.

A customer walks past, glancing his way, but uninterested in the state he is in. The Owner directs the customer to another cage, talking this doll up, highlighting all of its best qualities and ensuring that there is still satisfaction to be had here. The doll is selected. A list is passed over to the customer while The Owner extracts the doll from its metallic cave.

Towards the light of The Room the chosen doll follows, naked.

A reference is there, but to what, Jared isn’t sure.

What he knows for certain is that he is in his cage, upgrades and healing applications humming through him. One by one, bruises and welts and other markings fade until they disappear. Shifting a bit so that he is on his side instead of on his back, he feels something strange in between his legs.

How odd.

What is it?

Quickly, a scan is done to determine the substance. It feels like come, but thicker. And it couldn’t be come. Dolls are not allowed into their cages like that. They may be bleeding and bruised when put back inside, but they never leave The Room with the customer’s fluids. The Owner is at the desk, phoning in orders for replacement parts for the models above and next to Jared. As he hangs up the phone, the scan is complete. Jared closes his eyes.

It’s lotion.

Ordinary, generic lotion.

But why? His skin would never absorb it. His skin is not human skin. Jared stops the scan and hesitates to open the folder with pictures.

_Pirouette. Grand battement._

His healing system pops up, suggesting that he hibernate so that healing can proceed at a more efficient pace. The pull to detach and disconnect from the world is tempting. He could settle into nothingness and forget all about this ridiculous lotion, the choreographed steps of strength and form, the music that accompanied it all, and the remaining dull ache of the pry bar.

Instead, he remains awake, lying on his back and looking up at the plain, gray slate of the cage.

 _Pirouette_ is such an appealing word.

 

A customer wants to take Jared out.

Out of the shop.

He has a shiny, silver car parked outside. Jared can see it from his cage if he cranes his neck and twists a little to the left. A few of the other dolls look as well; their curiosity is peaked by the rarity of the situation. A customer has never made this request before. What will Jared do on the outside? How will he know how to act? Or maybe, they will only take Jared into the car, drive around for a minute, and return back to utilize The Room?

The Owner pulls The Voice aside, near the entrance to The Room.

“He’s offered three times my rate. I could pay for some upgrades around here with that.”

“It’s your shop.”

“Yeah, but what do you think? Should I do it?”

“…you really want my opinion?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

“Don’t do it.”

“So you’d turn down that money?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you’d lose ten times that if they made off with the doll.”

“I could call the police if they did.”

“By the time they’d find the car, the doll would be broken up for parts.”

“I didn’t think about that.”

“If I can be blunt—I think that’s probably why they’re asking. They don’t expect you to think this through. They’re using the money as a distraction; they expect you to say yes.”

“Huh. Padalecki parts _are_ expensive.”

“I guess.”

“They are. Morty cuts me a deal when I get it serviced, but that’s just because he likes that damn Corina model so much. I still need to buy a replacement for that cage. Doesn’t make sense to have an empty cage.”

“Did you make up your mind?”

“What? Oh. Yes. The answer is no. Are they crazy? My dolls don’t leave this shop. Go tell them. I’m gonna go call Pete. Are you set for tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Jared watches The Voice walk past, to the front, where he speaks with the customer and informs them that their request has been denied. None of the dolls here can fulfill that particular desire. The Voice suggests that they look elsewhere, but he and The Owner appreciate their interest in the shop regardless.

The customer leaves and The Voice sits down at the front desk, his back to Jared as always.

 

Hours later, The Voice takes out something rolled up from underneath the desk.

It’s been a quiet night.

Jared has done minor upgrades here and there, looking at the white flower, marveling at its smooth, pale curves. He hasn’t dared to turn to his second picture. This is enough for him. Rain provides a soft, lulling sound from the front window.

The Voice unties the bundle and spreads it over the desk. Jared perks up, craning his neck for a better view. One of the dolls in the cages underneath him rolls over, shifting around with a small thud. Jared tries not to make as much noise. With some maneuvering, his view of The Voice’s back is clearer. A mat is out, about half an inch thick, flexible. Dim, pearly white light shines from it, though it is not enough to light much more than the immediate space around it.

What could it be?

Fingers skim across the length of this new thing, touching it like treasure.

Holding onto the bars of his cage, Jared watches, holding his breath as The Voice lifts both his hands. Something is going to happen. What does it do?

Rain delves into the background as fingers meet the surface.

Something _wonderful_ happens.

It’s a piano—portable and perfect.

The song is sad. Each note is rumbling, brimming with a deep, visceral melancholy. There is not a single pause in between movements. Not a stumble. Not a breath out of place.

And then the notes pick up. Fingers force down with confidence and ease. Higher notes are produced, sharp and piercing like the icicles that hang from the shop after a snow. Jared has only ever seen their shadows, but he knows them well. From one second to another, deft fingers shift and flex from high to low and back again, washing the entire shop in a melody so sweet, so fragile, it causes an immeasurable ache.

All the lightness serves only to accentuate the darkness.

The notes plummet into the lowest, most mournful progressions. Buried, nearly asphyxiated underneath, is the faintest high note.

Music is played.

Raw, frantic, heated, and heartbroken.

Awash in the fluctuations of grief over anger, Jared loses control of himself.

That one note. That one, frail, dove surrounded by a murder of crows. He cannot stand it. The jagged, wretched, terrible lows will crush it, rip it open, and feast on it, hoarding the grace it carries, smothering it out of any and all light.

Jared reaches out, working his hand out of the cage, grasping for the piano.

Let him play.

Let him change the tempo, shift the sonata, transform the despair into something The Voice can sink his teeth into and _dance_.

The octaves are broken. Half-tone fragments are shattered. The storm yields. The Voice looks over, tears in his eyes.

He sees Jared.

Enough. It’s enough.

A customer arrives. The bell above the door is harsh. Fumbling, The Voice shoves the piano underneath the desk, clearing his throat and wiping at his eyes. The night must continue.

Withdrawing his hand, Jared curls up and closes his eyes.

He took another picture.

 

The customer selects the doll above Jared.

Finished with the set up in The Room, The Voice lingers outside of Jared’s cage, standing a foot away.

Outside, the sun is rising. The Voice only works nights. Soon, The Owner will arrive and their shifts will change, and The Voice will go to wherever he goes when he is not here. And Jared will stay in his cage until a customer steps in and requests him. He might be anything to anyone today. He might be the remedy to grief or the outlet for rage.

Faint orange light drifts over The Voice.

As soon as The Owner arrives, he will close the curtains over the shop’s front windows. He will disappear into his office and only come out when the bell above the door rings.

Distance between them closes with two silent steps.

Touching the bars of Jared’s cage, The Voice’s heartbeat quickens. Handsome. The Voice is very handsome. And just the right height to stand at Jared’s cage without needing to be on his toes.

Fingers slip under the bars of the cage, splayed out.

Jared figures out the message. He can’t help the smile that tugs at his mouth.

There are 88 keys on a standard piano. Here, in Jared’s cage, there are only ten. But he can make do with that. He shortens the movement and controls the tempo. He gifts a preview of that light note escaping from its prison of octaves, fluttering out, stretching its wings, pumping cool, fresh air underneath it until it rises—higher and higher and higher, until all that is left of it, is the memory of its happiness.

Over The Voice’s fingers, Jared plays.

The Voice listens. He hears every note.

For a second after the tune is finished, Jared doesn’t pull away. He is about to, worried that he might have stepped out of his place, but The Voice wraps his hands around Jared’s and holds them together.

Enough warmth to heat his cage seeps into Jared from the touch. There have been no alterations to him today. He is as he was first unpacked from his box.

Shapely lips part, about to say something, something wonderful, whatever it is. The whisper of it catches flight, landing inside the curve of Jared’s ear, fragile, but alive.

The bell above the front door chimes.

The Voice flinches.

He turns away from Jared and helps the customer who has just walked in.

Jared is not hurt by this. They must all do their jobs. He curls up in his cage and holds his hands to his face, cradling the little warmth left in them.

 

Two nights later, a customer requests Jared.

Jared stands in the center of The Room while The Voice hefts out a trough filled with ice.

There is some hesitancy to The Voice’s movements. He seems nervous. Jared picks up an ice cube, waiting for the customer, wondering what this is all about. There is no bed, and Jared has been kept naked. His eyes, however, have been changed to brown and his hair was grown out. A male form has been retained, though the control for his hips was nudged and he’s filled out slightly.

Not a word is said about the piano or their hands.

A few glances have been exchanged between The Voice and Jared in these two days. The Voice always looks away first. Jared wonders if he should speak. He can scream and murmur the right words for customers based on statistics and logged preferences. However, he has none of that information for The Voice. What if he says the wrong thing? Many customers like to be called daddy. That doesn’t seem to fit with what Jared knows about The Voice.

And what he knows is a fraction of what exists.

The ice cube Jared holds doesn’t melt against his skin. He isn’t warm; he is whatever temperature his surroundings are, unless his settings are changed or he comes in contact with human skin. He had a customer fuck him in a fever once.

“Sit in it,” The Voice mutters, stepping towards the doors to leave. His shoulders are square and his jaw is set. There are never any glances when Jared is in The Room. “Don’t get out.”

 _Swish_.

Within a few minutes, Jared’ surface temperature has dropped. He waits and waits and waits. What is this customer paying for? Are they watching through an unseen camera? A hole in the wall? Should he be doing something? Moving in some way to make himself more attractive? The Room is unnervingly silent. Jared shifts around once, to draw his knees up to his chest, and the ice cubes clink against each other.

 _Swish_.

Startled, Jared looks over at the doors.

 

Dolls are not human. They are made to look like humans, mimic humans, and react like humans.

So when Apollo takes out a silver blade and filets Jared open, from the bottom of his rib cage to his lower stomach, Jared reacts like a human would.

He screams.

The incision is dug into with broad, firm hands. Jared’s skin gives way, pliant and flexible against the bulging intrusion of two hands mashed into him, until Jared is convulsing around Apollo’s forearms. Pain pummels Jared. His legs buck and twitch over the edges of the trough as he is pushed further and further underneath the crush of ice.

Apollo moans as Jared shrieks.

Fingers caress over tissue and the round, tender mounds of organs.

Ice worms its way into Jared’s mouth, laced in his own blood. In seconds, Jared’s mouth is packed full of it, muffling his agony. His eyes water. Dizzy. Cold. Dizzy. Something inside him is squeezed. A fat, blunt finger tickles over the edge of where Jared has been cut open.

More familiar to him than the sound of rain is the sound of trousers being unzipped.

Massive and booming, Apollo moves over Jared, thrusting his cock into the opening he made, groaning and shuddering at the squelch of it. His long, blond hair tumbles over his shoulders, shaking with the force of which he pounds into Jared. The ice crunches. Jared struggles. Useless tears roll down his face. His squeals of pain increase in volume as the ice in his mouth begins to push out. Jared can’t take it. He can’t. This pain is too much. Every note of pain is composed into a larger symphony, a rabid beast of octaves without the remotest hint of relief.

“Scream for me,” Apollo laughs. “I wanna hear you, baby. Scream.”

A hand cups Jared’s cheeks and forces him to spit out ice and spit. Hacking, Jared is dazed. Blood pours out of him. Apollo’s hips piston faster, harder, and something is knocked loose.

This has never been… never been done before. Just like the piano. And not like the piano. Plunged into renewed aggression, the body above him undulates and rocks and rolls into the folds of his skin, the walls of muscle and organs.

Grunting, Apollo reaches over the edge of the trough. He picks up his knife.

As cold as the ice, the blade is pressed to Jared’s forehead.

“What if,” is rumbled, rank breath hitting Jared’s nostrils, “I cut out those pretty little eyes, Marco? What if I cut them out and keep them just for me and fuck those beautiful sockets one… by… one…”

The mention of it—the image alone—causes Jared to panic. There is no alarm he can press, no signal he can send to the front desk.

Dolls are not human. Dolls do not have that right.

He isn’t even himself anymore when the world goes black.

He is Marco.

Whoever Marco was.

 

“I don’t know what to tell you, but I just can’t fix its eyes.”

“Morty, c’mon, you’ve been fixin’ these damn things for decades and you’re tellin’ me you can’t reattach some simple fucking eyes?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“So what? Can we get it a new head?”

“In theory, yes. But they’re not cheap. You may as well invest in the newest model.”

“Those models aren’t out for another year. Fucking Padalecki Corporation. I bet you the difference between this model and the new one is ten grand and a tighter asshole.”

“I’ve done what I can.”

“Morty, Morty... how much would a new head be?”

“…if you can find one? Six.”

“Six?! I paid five for the thing, brand new! How about just the eyes?”

“Five. I told you. They’re expensive for a reason. It’s lasted this long because of its durability. But you can’t have your customers sawing through its torso and digging its eyes out with the blunt end of a knife. No doll can withstand that and heal itself afterwards. These things have limits.”

“Well, I’ve banned that fucker. Not that that does me any good now.”

“The Padalecki is still operable without its eyes. It needs time to heal, a week should do it.”

“Fuck that! You know how much I’ll lose in a week?! I already had to fire my stupid overnight clerk.”

“You fired him?”

“Fuck yes. No one interrupts a customer. He knew the rules.”

“…hmm.”

“What? What is that ‘hmm’ for?”

“If he hadn’t, how far do you think that customer would have gone?”

“Don’t be smart with me, Morty. You know it’s the principle. Besides, I caught him on tape doing some weird shit.”

“Was he having sex with the dolls?”

“No. No, that I wouldn’t have fired him for. Maybe a warning and some dock in pay, but he’s been good. This was just… freaky.”

“Inappropriate?”

“Yeah. He was dancing in front of them. And not you know, some mambo disco shit, but fucking _ballet_. On another tape I have him playing the god damn piano for them. The kid is a real freak. Almost as bad as fucking Apollo. God damn, how am I gonna sell this now?”

“I’m finished here.”

“I’ll sell it to you for parts.”

“No, thank you.”

“Find me a buyer, then.”

“Just keep it. You don’t have to sell it.”

“Keep it?! The fuck am I gonna do with a blind doll? There’s customers for that, but not enough to earn what it used to. God dammit, I need _eyes_ for it!”

“Goodbye. I left my bill on your desk.”

“Gee, thanks, Morty. Thanks a fucking lot.”

 

Shut off, Jared is left in a heap in the corner of The Owner’s office.

More than a few offers come through for Padalecki parts. Elbows. Ears. Feet. But only one buyer comes in for the Padalecki whole, as-is.

Jared never returns to his cage.

A white sheet is placed over him.

 

The last thing Jared thought was a single word.

Appassionata.

 

 

 

 

The ballet _Coppelia_ does not share the same renown as some.

It is composed of three acts, centered around a puppet, Coppelia. She is crafted and cared for by Doctor Coppelius, a mad scientist, devoted to the effort of bringing her to life. He is lonely. He dreams of her constantly, not in the cool stillness in which she slumbers, but animated and vibrant.

Franz is a local man. He is set to marry Swanilda. Coming out of a tavern just before his marriage to Swanilda, he lays eyes on Coppelia. He buys her flowers. He bows. He blows kisses. He waves. Desperate for some recognition from the beautiful woman, Franz continues his advances. At the right moment, purely by accident, Doctor Coppelius, out of sight, adjusts the puppet, setting it in motion. Franz takes this as a sign that the lovely lady is returning his affection. He climbs a ladder to meet her.

Jealous, Swanilda and a few of her friends sneak into the home of Doctor Coppelius at the same time, intent on ruining this woman who has stolen Franz’s love. They discover several puppets. Swanilda creeps up to Coppelia and finds that she, too, is a puppet.

Doctor Coppelius arrives, enraged at the trespassers and kicks them out. However, he notices Franz outside, still on the ladder, and invites him in. This is the key to the last piece of the puzzle: he needs a human sacrifice to jolt life into Coppelia. With a magic spell, he’ll bring the beautiful Coppelia to life at long last. Franz is given a sleeping potion. The Doctor gathers together the rest of the ingredients.

Swanilda is clever. She hid in the shadows when the Doctor expelled her friends. Without a sound, she removes Coppelia’s clothes and dresses in them. She pretends that _she_ is Coppelia, and the Doctor, enamored and speechless, is transfixed.

The lovers escape.

Doctor Coppelius finds the real Coppelia, lifeless and nude, behind a curtain.

 _Coppelia_ is noted as a comic ballet. The opening scene is the town getting ready for a festival to rejoice the arrival of a new bell. Swanilda and Franz are married during the festival at the end of Act III, and the entire town celebrates with a dance. The Doctor is compensated with money, the young lovers are wed in bliss, and the town is full of joy.

It’s a happy ending for everyone except Coppelia.

 

The buyer pays in cash, upfront, accompanied by a friend.

It is an entire life savings, plus some money borrowed from that friend and an independent third party.

 

One day, Jared wakes up.

 _Bah-dum_.

He has no eyesight.

Hands appear over his, folded over his chest.

Fingers play across ten keys.

It is the first movement of many.

**Author's Note:**

> Uploading this despite my hesitancy. I've been working on this for a while and finally figured out the ending. I had an anon a while back ask for something dark. This rolled around in my head for a long time before I was finally able to hammer something out. 
> 
> Now I'm off to work. I'm looking forward to writing something lighter later.


End file.
